From Valinor With Love
by Authoressinhiding
Summary: Throughout the long history of Middle-earth, there have been instances of random singing, a phenomenon referred to in scrolls of lore as the "vocal runs." A series of Middle-earth song parodies, featuring Broadway, Disney, pop, and classic rock.
1. Prologue: Enter Alassë

**Disclaimer: The plot, parodies, and a few OC's are mine. All canon characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, and every parodied song belongs to the artist and their record company. **

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><p><strong>Prologue: Halls of Judgement, Ilmarin, Taniquetil, Valinor<strong>

"Alassë! We have come to record your statement for the council of the Aratar. Speak carefully, for this will decide your doom."

Silence met this auspicious statement. The messenger, Eönwë, herald of Manwë, spoke again, allowing irritation to color his voice.

"Alassë! This is your only opportunity to plead your case. Come, tell us. How did it begin?"

The cell remained empty save for the tall Eönwë and a slight brunette Maia woman whose arms bulged with parchment, an inkpot, and a large eagle quill pen. A patch of air near the far wall shimmered faintly, and a cough sounded.

"It began with the Ainulindalë, the Great Music," announced a dry, male voice from the shimmering air. "We, the Ainur, all gathered together under Illúvatar. We sang throughout our fair regions until our music filled the emptiness and the Void. We sang through the discords of Melkor and the resolution of the Music by Illúvatar."

"My lord?" whispered the Maia to Eönwë. "Do I copy this?"

The fair herald waved a single hand dismissively. "All of this is written already, Alassë. We do not need the history of the World. It has been told better and by others. An accounting of your own deeds will suffice."

The voice continued as if it had not heard, "And when the Music ceased, we beheld the wonders our Music had created. The colors and light, the oceans and winds, the stones and metals and jewels – Arda, the Earth. On that day, many of the Ainur chose to reside within this new world. I was among them. The Valar and Maiar, as we were afterwards called, could cloak themselves in whatever semblance they desired and pass unseen among lesser spirits and beings.

"Elsewhere, it is recorded of the labors of the Valar in fashioning the Earth, of the coming forth of Elves and Men, and of the great struggles against Melkor – sorry, Morgoth," the voice added as the Maia woman flinched visibly. "Forgive me, my dear. I'm not very good with change. Anyway, this is not that story.

"This is the tale of a Maia who tired of overseeing the world and decided to meddle instead. A Maia who longed to hear again the Music of the Ainur and thought it sad for mortals that they should have such little music of their own. How much more joy would there be if the Children of Illúvatar – and all other races in Arda – could sing just as easily as speaking! And so I set forth to spread music and merriment."

Eönwë groaned aloud at this. "_That_ is your reasoning? That is your justification for all the trouble you have caused? Laurë, start writing now."

"Yes, my lord." The Maia woman opened up her travel stool. Settling onto the rickety wooden seat, she spread a piece of parchment open on her lap. "I am ready."

"Ahem." The voice sounded irritated at being interrupted. "If you will please pay attention, I am Alassë of the Maiar, and here follows the tale of my meddling..."

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for taking the time to read this story. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated. Next chapter, the singing takes off, and Lorde Denethor gets in touch with his royal nature. Also, I am currently looking for a new title for this story. Any suggestions? **


	2. Royals

**A/N: The first song to be included in this anthology of tales is "Royals" by Lorde. If anyone is unfamiliar with it, I highly recommend finding it on YouTube.**

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><p><strong>Halls of Judgement, Ilmarin, Taniquetil, Valinor<strong>

**From the Trial of Alassë, as recorded by Laurë, chief scribe of Manwë, Lord of Air**

_Others may deride me for not recounting my adventures in a strictly chronological fashion. Allow me to defend myself. I meddled successfully throughout the Third and Fourth Ages of this Middle-Earth until someone informed Manwë of my adventures, and he sent his thug Eönwë to drag me back to Valinor. Stop pouting like that, Eönwë. I only speak the truth._

_Ehem. Chronology. My memory, while immense, is by no means perfect. I shall tell of my adventures as they come to remembrance. Besides, where is the fun in doing things in order?_

_Our first tale begins in the last days of the Third Age, during what was then called the War of the Ring._

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><p><strong>The 9<strong>**th**** of March, Year 3019 of the Third Age, Minas Tirith, Gondor, Middle-Earth**

It had been an exhausting day, even in comparison to all the other dark, exhausting, miserable days since he had first learned of the death of his beloved Boromir.

At last free from the concerns and questions of his people, Denethor ascended the steep stone steps to the top of his tower, a lit taper in one hand. He paused at the top to rummage for a skeleton key in the pockets of his robe. Unlocking the heavy wooden door – a mixture of oak and pine boards, six inches thick, reinforced with long strips of iron – the steward entered his private study.

The furnishings were sparse. A behemoth oak desk, a sturdy chair, and a couple of bookcases were all that alleviated the grimness of the room. It contained neither fireplace nor brazier, for here, at least, Denethor would brook no weakness by allowing such "creature comforts." Aging he might be, but old and frail he would never be.

Glancing once towards the cloth-covered bundle at the back of his desk, Denethor reached for a large scroll on the bottom shelf of the closest bookcase. _A Brief History of the Heirs of Isildur_. Given the implications of the Halfing's tale that day, he thought it prudent to refresh his memory of the scroll's contents. Settling into his chair, the Steward began to read. He scoffed under his breath. Mithrandir. This all came back to Mithrandir's meddling. Damned old wizard. Why could he not leave well enough alone?

"I've never seen a Dúnadan in the flesh," he muttered. That is, he intended to mutter. Somehow, however, it came out as a song. Mildly taken aback, the Steward of Gondor continued,

_"I've never seen a Dúnadan in the flesh,_

_I raised my sons to battle Orcs, save the kingdom._

_And I'm justly proud of my success;_

_In my city, no one's in thralldom."_

Denethor paused, disconcerted. But then his mouth seemed to open of its own accord, and the music tumbled out.

_"But history's like:_

_Battles, Stewards_

_Fighting of the Nazgûl_

_Fail-safes, Ringwraiths,_

_Ride to Minas Morgul._

_We don't care; we're protecting Gondor on our own._

_But all the lore's like_

_Gondor, Arnor_

_What happened to Isildur?_

_Swordhilt, Towers built_

_True heir of Elendil!_

_We don't care; Eärnur died without an heir._

_We may never be royals - _

_Númenor's in our blood,_

_But the kingship's not for us._

_Protect the city without a fuss._

_I am still your ruler_

_And my line will always be_

_And how we'll rule, we'll rule, we'll rule…_

_Welcome to reality."_

The Steward dropped the scroll and stood. For some reason, this inexplicable song required dramatic pacing about his tower room. And so he began to pace in the light of a single candle.

"_In Minas Tirith long ago,_

_Glorfindel warned the king of hasty decisions._

_Eärnur left to fight his foe,_

_And the king's death brought_

_Steward supervision._

_And history's like:_

_Choices, Crises,_

_New treaties with Rohan,_

_Valor, Honor,_

_Defending our homeland._

_We don't care. We're protecting Gondor on our own._

_But Mithrandir's like,_

_'Come on, old man!_

_Evil brews in Mordor._

_Hearken! Listen!_

_The King comes to Gondor.'_

_I don't care. Eärnur died without an heir._

_So we'll never be royals._

_Númenor's in our blood,_

_But the kingship's not for us. _

_Control Gondor without a fuss._

_I am still your ruler,_

_And my line will always be. _

_And how we'll rule, we'll rule, we'll rule! _

_Welcome to reality."_

Denethor moved to his window and gazed up at the stars, still singing.

_"Ooh ooh oh ooh _

_Cuz no one could have ever dreamed _

_The consequence of no queen._

_Ooh ooh oh ooh_

_Eärnur died without an heir, _

_Left the city in the Steward's care. _

_And we'll never be royals. _

_Númenor's in our blood,_

_But the kingship's not for us. _

_Protect our world without a fuss._

_I am still your ruler, _

_And my line will always be. _

_And how we'll rule, we'll rule, we'll rule! _

_Welcome to reality."_

As soon as the last note died away, the Steward exited the room. A sensation lingered in his mind that he had not been in complete control of his own body, but he banished the thought instantly. It was likely nothing more than fatigue; he had become overtired due to the exhausting nature of his day. Such a thing had never happened before. Still, Denethor preferred to believe it than to consider alternative possibilities. He rushed down the steep flight of stairs, refusing to look back.

In the deserted tower room, the emptiness sighed once and remarked disappointedly, "Mortals have no sense of the theatric. A decent amateur performance, but rather lacking in heart, I fear."

The air shimmered briefly for a moment, and the voice was gone.

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><p><strong>AN: Thoughts? Feedback is greatly appreciated, especially if you have any ideas for other songs that you would like to see parodied here. Next up: Elfalicious.**


	3. Elfalicious

**Valinor**

"Our next tale begins, as one might suppose

In Lothlorien the fair - not that long ago."

"Alassë. The more I hear of your dreadful poetry, the more convinced I am of your guilt. Could you not write anything of merit?"

The patch of air sheltering an invisible Alassë sniffed derisively and grumbled something about pearls and swine.

"What was that?" demanded his interrogator.

"Never mind," snapped the air irritably.

"Continue with your confessions."

"Whatever. So, elves. Yeah . . . Elves . . . "

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><p><strong>Lothlorien, January 17, 3019 of the Third Age<strong>

If Gimli was being completely honest, the last forty-eight hours had been some of the worst of his life. Finding Balin's tomb, watching Gandalf fall, fleeing from orcs, sleeping in a tree, crossing a rope bridge, and being blindfolded by the bizarre wood-elves. He was gradually coming to understand his father's lingering bitterness about Mirkwood and Thranduil, more than sixty years after being imprisoned there.

By the time his blindfold was removed at Cerin Amroth, Gimli's anger had faded to be replaced by a dull resentment. He had realized that a group of strange elves would be ill-received even in Erebor or the Blue Mountains, and that cooled his temper. Even though he disliked it, Gimli could understand the elves' treatment of him.

The company stood, blinking as their eyes became reacquainted with the sun. Haldir, the elf leader, drew Legolas aside and murmured to him in their strange Sindarin dialect. Gimli could not catch any of it, other than the word, "Merisoos."

At length the elves turned back to the main party. To Gimli's everlasting horror, they then began to sing,

"Four, tres, two, uno

Haldir: Listen up y'all, 'cause this is it

The lembas that I'm bakin' is delicious

All the elves:

Elfalicious definition make them girls go loco

They want our blond hair so they can't stop staring at our photos.

They can't chase us, they can't trace us

Can't disgrace us or deface us

This restraining order's binding

Celeborn put it in writing.

Elfalicious (so delicious)

But we ain't promiscuous

Your motives are suspicious,

Your "assets" are fictitious.

Unwanted kisses (mmmwwahhh)

Put our nerves on edge, edge

And we be locating a sledge hammer to ensure you're dead. (four, tres, two, uno)

So delicious (our lembas)

So judicious (Elrond's decisions really rock)

So capricious (just go ask the dwarves)

We're Elfalicious (t-t-t-t-t-tasty, tasty)

Elfalicious def-,

Elfalicious def-,

Elfalicious def- def def def def def def def def

Elfalicious definition make mortals go crazy.

They always claim they know us

Comin' to us, call us friendly (Gimli: Elves, friendly?)

We're the N to the O, L, D, the OR the IN,

And we make all of Arda's people's eyes turn green.

We're Elfalicious (so delicious)

Our bodies stay vicious

We be battling them orcs, just to work on our fitness

Legolas: Hal's my witness (oh, wee)

All the elves:

Our fighting skills just rock, rock

And girls be learning how to stalk just to watch what we got (four, tres, two, uno)

So delicious (our lembas)

So judicious (Elrond's decisions really rock)

So capricious (just go ask the dwarves)

We're Elfalicious

Haldir: Hold, hold, hold, hold, hold up, check it out!

Legolas:

Ladies, ladies, ladies

If you really want me,

Darlings' get some patience.

Cuz you'll never get a taste

While you're chasin' chasin'

Your life is wastin' wastin'

You'll waste it away

It'll make you crazy

Haldir:

T to the A, to the S, T, Y, lembas is tasty, T to the A to the S, T, Y, lemmas is tasty

D to the E, to the L, I, C, I, O, U, S, to the D, to the E, to the, to the, to the, hit it Leggie

Legolas:

All the time I turn around, ladies gather round, always looking at me up and down looking at my (uh)

I just wanna say it now - I ain't trying to round up drama, chill it, mama, I don't wanna be your man.

And I know I'm coming off just a little bit conceited, and I keep on repeating how these girls won't just leave me

But I'm tryin' to tell, if it's safe to escape to Rivendell

Cause they say I'm Elfalicious!

All the elves:

Elfalicious (so delicious)

But we ain't promiscuous

Your motives are suspicious,

Your "assets" are fictitious.

You blow kisses (mmmwwahhh)

That put our nerves on edge, edge

And we be locating a sledge hammer to ensure you're dead!

Four, tres, two, uno

We're Elfalicious (so delicious)

Our bodies stay vicious

We be battling them orcs, just to work on our fitness

Legolas:Hal's my witness

Haldir: Oh wee

ëAll the elves:

Our fighting skills just rock, rock

And girls be learning how to stalk just to watch what we got (four, tres, two, uno)

So delicious (aye, aye, aye, aye)

So delicious (aye, aye, aye, aye)

We're Elfalicious, t-t-t-t-t tasty, tasty!"

The elves dissolved in laughter, clapping one another on the back. As for Gimli? He promptly located the nearest mallorn tree and began bashing his head bloody against the silver bark.

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><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"Really," Alassë continued, holding back laughter as he finished the tale, "the only explanation for this is that certain young elves of renown have been driven crazy by an excess of female regard. Tell Manwë that his judgment should be turned in their direction, not mine."

"Legolas and Haldir have done nothing," Eönwë said stubbornly.

"Not them, you brains-forsaken idjit. The Merisoos."

The scribe glanced up from her notes. "Merisoos? I am unfamiliar with that term."

Both the patch of air and Eönwë turned to her, glowering, "Lucky you."

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><p><strong>AN: **The format's a bit rough on this one. Sorry about that! Lyrics are based off of "Fergalicious" by Fergie.

Quick question. For the next chapter, what would you like to see? A Disney song? A Broadway parody? I am completely open to suggestions. Thanks for taking the time to read! Reviews, favorites, and follows would be greatly appreciated.


	4. Hellfire

**A/N: **This chapter is based off of the song "Hellfire" sung by Frollo in Disney's _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. I highly recommend finding it on YouTube and giving it a listen.

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><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

Eönwë had been trapped in Alassë's cell for an hour, listening to his terrible tales. It wasn't so much that the Maia was evil. No, that would have been easier to deal with by far. The trouble was, Eönwë mused, that Alassë had a simply awful sense of humor. He thought the emotions of mortals (and Elves) were amusing and meddled in things that oughtn't be meddled with. The messenger regarded the troublemaker's empty corner with a mulish frown.

Really, to be frank, the most irritating thing about this whole process was dealing with Alassë, who had to be the most frustrating Maia ever created, bar none. Not even Sauron at his most evil overlord dramatics could match him for sheer obnoxiousness. And that was saying something.

"Your crimes are not only limited to harassing the elves and men of Numenor," Eönwë continued in a peevish voice. "You have been known to interfere with personal griefs, sycophantic henchmen, and the Quest."

"If you're talking about that whole Ring debacle…"

"Yes. I am."

"Weeellll," Alassë dragged out the word until it became a verbal shrug. "I didn't really do anything. That little Hobbit was going to the bad all on his own. I just revealed the feelings that were already present."

The scribe leaned forward eagerly, her quill at the ready. "What Hobbit? What did you do?"

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><p><strong>Slopes of Mount Doom, immediately prior to a REALLY important moment<strong>

Just a few more moments, Frodo promised himself, and then it would all be over. He was so close, so close to achieving his goal. Everyone else – even loyal Sam – had been lost or had fallen by the way in order to get him to this place. He walked weakly, step by fumbling step, towards the edge of the chasm. As he did so, words came tumbling out his mouth.

The words didn't really surprise Frodo. After all, he had felt this way for a long time. It was fitting that here, alone, at the end of all things, he was finally able to express himself.

"Elbereth, Gilthoniel," he sang, his voice thin and weak in that cavernous space,

"You know I am a humble hobbit

Of my virtues I cannot be proud.

Elbereth, Gilthoniel

You know I'm doing my best to stop it

This wretchedness that has my spirit cowed."

Closer to the edge now, Frodo demanded, with fervor,

"Then tell me, Gilthoniel,

Why I see it dancing there?

Why those tongues of fire still scorch my soul?

I see it, I feel it,

His Eye, His Eye is always there

This ring, I fear, is out of my control."

Frodo paused, fifteen feet back from the chasm.

"Like fire, Hellfire, this fire in my mind

This burning desire, to reason it is blind.

It's not my fault! I'm not to blame!

It is the nature of the Ring, Isildur's Bane.

It's not my fault; it is His plan.

If a king could not resist, who thinks I can?"

Blinking back tears brought on by pain, heat, and exhaustion, Frodo sang,

"Protect me, Gilthoniel,

Don't let me fall under its spell

Don't let this Ring wreathe chains around my bones.

Help me to destroy this,

In the fire, Orodruin's hell.

Or else let it be mine and mine alone!"

The hobbit stopped, his heart racing, his innermost feelings revealed at last. Unable to take his eyes from the ring in his hand, he turned back from the fire and staggered towards the exit.

"Hell fire, Dark fire.

Now, Precious, it's your turn.

Choose me or the fire

Be mine or we'll both burn.

Precious have mercy on us

Precious have mercy on me.

But you will be mine

Or we'll all burn!"

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><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"Luckily, right at that moment, when Frodo son of Drogo BaggyPants Hobbit finally cracked and went round the bend, his loyal ombudsman Samwise I'll-do-all-the-chores Gamgee and that wretched hairless black squirrel showed up to urge things on to their inevitable end. So, you see, Eönwë, no real harm done."

Eönwë groaned aloud. "We will adjourn this session until tomorrow," he announced. "I need a stiff drink."

_And thus it was that Alassë, most annoying, obnoxious, and impulsive of all the Maia in Valinor, successfully won the first battle in the war between Music and Justice. At least . . . that's how he tells it._


	5. Hopelessly Devoted to You

**A/N: This chapter is based on "Hopelessly Devoted to You" from the musical Grease. I highly suggest giving the original a listen.**

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><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

The next morning dawned too bright and too early. Eönwë was struggling with a massive alehead. He stumbled into Alassë's cell, half-supported by the scribe, and tripped over the Maia's empty breakfast plate. Manwë's messenger managed to keep his feet, but he swore like a thrice-cursed sailor.

"Temper," purred the invisible prisoner, who seemed to be inhabiting the same corner as the day before.

Despite his clumsiness, Eönwë managed a savage gesture in the direction of the corner.

"You _do_ realized that isn't physically possible, my dear chap?"

Another gesture, this one even more emphatic than the previous.

"All right, as you wish. I shall get down to business. Are you ready, dear scribe?"

She nodded, whipping her writing materials seemingly out of nowhere.

"Very well." The invisible voice deepened. "It is easy to care for the sympathetic – the fatherless children, the noble adventurer, the beautiful woman. It is difficult to care for the unsympathetic. In all my many years, one of the most unsympathetic people I have ever met was named Grima Wormtongue. And even he had his tale of anguish. Would you like to hear it?"

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><p><strong>Hobbiton, West Farthing, The Shire, Middle-earth<strong>

"You look upset."

The shade of Grima Wormtongue looked up from his broken, bleeding body to see a tall man standing amid the gardenias.

"What do you want?" croaked the shade.

"Why, my good sir, nothing more than to help you." The man leapt the fence separating the garden from the front path. For some reason, Grima found it difficult to focus on the man's actual features, beyond a sense of _reddish_ something. "What happens to be the problem?"

"I'm dead," said Grima glumly.

"Oh, yes. That would be discouraging. How do you feel about that?"

"My death?"

"And anything else that's on your mind. I'm just here to listen, really."

Grima glanced back over his shoulder towards another body, this one small, withered, and covered with a cloak. He turned to the stranger. "It isn't pretty, what I'm thinking," he warned.

"That's all right," the man said comfortably. "I don't mind."

With a sigh, Grima looked back at the other corpse,

"Guess mine is not the first faith broken

My eyes are not the first you've deceived

I'm not the first to know

There's just no escaping from you."

He stifled a sob, then resumed.

"I know I'm just a fool who was willing

To turn traitor and spy for you

But, Sharky, can't you see,

There's nothing else for me to do?

I'm hopelessly devoted to you.

But now there's nowhere to hide

Since Théoden pushed me aside

I courted my death

Trying to get a message to you

Getting past those Ents for you

I'm so hopeless, still devoted to you."

Grima attempted to leave the body of his fallen master, but something held him still, kept him singing the secret aches and regrets that had gnawed his soul for so long.

"My head is sayin', "Thou fool! Just leave him.

But my heart is sayin', "Where can I go?"

Just hold on to the end, and

That's what I intend to do

It's hopeless. I'm devoted to you.

But now there's nowhere to hide

Since I knifed you, and you died

I'm out of my head

Murdered by those hobbits and you!

Even became a cannibal, too!

I was hopelessly devoted to you..."

Tears streaming down his non-corporeal face, Grima turned his back on the body of Saruman, in a final gesture of rejection. The stranger had vanished. Somehow, that did not really surprise him.

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><p><strong>AN: How are you enjoying things? What do you think of Alassë? As per request, a version of "Let it Go" is in the works. Any other songs you'd like to see parodied? Feedback of any sort - positive, negative, that awkward grey area in between - would be absolutely lovely. Next up: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables**

**Cheers,  
>AiH<strong>


	6. Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your fun reviews and for the song suggestions! This chapter comes to your courtesy of my Thanksgiving break. Hopefully, I will be able to use this time off to write the parodies you all have requested. This chapter is a little more sincere than the others. Hope you like it!**

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><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"There is one that I am sorry about," Alassë announced after a particularly angry outburst from Eönwë. "Or, at least, I'm sorry that I heard it."

"And that would be?" snapped the other male.

"The day that Théodred, son of Théoden, was laid to rest."

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><p><strong>the Great Hall of Meduseld, Edoras, Rohan<strong>

He had finally sent the mourners away. All of them. No one was welcome in his presence, and Théoden had made that clear to all his counselors and ministers. The king needed to be alone in his grief.

He sat on his throne, staring blankly at the long hall and its smoldering fires. His thoughts were consumed by the future that might have been and the happy, golden-haired toddler who had ripped _that_ ancient family tapestry, had his first kiss on _that_ hearthstone, knocked his cousin out over by _that_ flagstone.

Théoden sat alone and cried until his eyes were dry. Then, at last, when he had thought it impossible to feel any more grief than he did at present, he began to sing,

"This sorrow ever consumes me

And my grief goes on and on

An empty chair at every table

Now my son is dead and gone"

A glance towards the corner where Théodred and Éomer had practiced their swordplay, while Éowyn watched and critiqued their form.

"Here he jested with his cousins

Here he quarrelled, laughed, and sang

Here he dreamt of his tomorrows

Golden days that never came."

At least he could be proud of the bravery of his son. Closing his eyes, Théoden could still see the grin on the young man's face, his excitement and fearlessness on that last day when he rode for the fords of the Isen.

"From the head of his éored

He led brave men to fight our foes

And they rode, with voices ringing

And I can hear them now,

The battle paeans that they sung -

Each others' last companions -

On a lonely battlefield at dawn."

Fresh tears sprang to his weary eyes, and Théoden's voice broke into piercing, multifaceted shards.

"Théodred, my son, forgive me.

That I live and you are gone

A child should survive his parents -

How this pain goes on and on!

Phantom voices in the stables,

Phantom footsteps cross the floor

Towards the chair at my high table

Where the prince will sit no more.

Oh, my son, my son, don't ask me

What your sacrifice was for

Oh, my heart and hearth are empty

For I shall see your face no more."

Succumbing wholly to grief, the once mighty king of Rohan buried his face in his hands and sobbed.


	7. Let It Go

**A/N: I think this one's pretty self-explanatory, but in case anyone is curious, this chapter is based off of "Let It Go" from Frozen and dedicated to HeartoftheArtsari, who requested it.**

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><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

Eönwë sighed. "Do you not see, Alassë? This is exactly why you have been arraigned before the Lord of Air. As a matter of fact, I am surprised you managed to reach this point without being caught."

Alassë's empty corner coughed. "Well, the thing is . . . I did get caught the one time."

The messenger snorted. "Let me guess. It was Galadriel?"

"Aaaactually . . . not quite."

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><p><strong>The Tower of Orthanc, Isengard, sometime near the end of July, year 3018 of the Third Age<strong>

Quiet filled the stone room, empty save for the old man sitting on the ebony throne. He held a glassy ball in his hand, resembling nothing so much as a giant cat's eye marble. After a moment's thought, the old man began to sing,

"The Palantir sits quiet in my chamber tonight.

Not a red Eye to be seen.

I sent Grima off to Rohan

To manipulate the king.

The wind is howling 'round Orthanc and in my mind.

Didn't stop myself, didn't even try.

Don't let them in, don't let them see

Be the Istar they all want you to be

Conceal what's real, Don't let them know . . .

Crap. Gandalf knows.

Let it go, let it go.

Can't pretend I'm good anymore.

Let it go, let it go

This is what power's really for.

I don't care what Elrond will say.

Let the Council plot on. Galadriel never frightened me, anyway.

It's funny how great wisdom makes everyone else seem small.

And the morals that once controlled me have no sway o'er me at all.

It's time to reveal what I can do.

To have my cake and eat it, too.

No right, no wrong, just power for me – I'm free!

Let it go, let it go.

I am in cahoots with the Great Eye.

Let it go, let it go

All our enemies will die.

Here I stand, and here I'll stay. Let Mithrandir rage on.

My power courses throughout this land and through the ground.

My plans are spiraling, in Ungoliant's web all around.

And one thought sears through brain and bone – a fiery blast.

I'm never going back – Saruman the White is in the past.

Let it go, let it go,

And since the Dark Lord still looks on

Let it go, let it go

The White Wizard is gone.

Here I stand, and I won't give way.

Let the old fool rage on. Goodness never was my thing anyway."

Saruman the Multi-Colored rose from his throne and set the Palantir down carefully on its pedestal. Wrapping his great robe more tightly around him, he turned to the empty doorway.

"Alassë, kinsman, show yourself," he ordered.

With a slight pop and a murmured "damn," a tall man-shaped creature appeared in the door, frowning slightly. "You weren't supposed to notice me."

"What did you think would happen? Did you think that you could practice your parlor magic undetected by me? You fool!"

The tall man turned to leave, only to be prevented by the obsidian doors slamming inches in front of his nose. "Oh dear."

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"And that," Alassë finished, "is the story of how I got my third-favorite scar."

"Um, sir?" hazarded the scribe. "You haven't exactly told us anything."

"Haven't I?" asked the empty space. "How fascinating!"


	8. Whatever Shelob Wants

**A/N: This chapter is based off of the classic standard "Whatever Lola Wants." My favorite version is sung by Sarah Vaughan. Shout out to Tommyginger, who made the request.**

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"And then, to make matters even worse, there was the time when you gave animals the power of speech. Your arrogance in that instance was simply beyond the pale."

Alassë rolled his eyes. Admittedly, they were rather invisible at the moment, but it was the principle of the thing. "It was one time, Eönwë. Can't you ever let things go?"

_"Not. This."_

"Okay. Well, in my defense, it was a complete accident. And if I could go back and undo it, I completely would."

* * *

><p><strong>Cirith Ungol, a really, really, really bad day for Alassë<strong>

He had never actually intended to be there. Just passing through from East to West, headed for Rivendell. In the days afterward, Alassë could not remember how he got there. What he did remember was the amount of vomiting that ensued.

It was terribly confusing, to materialize in a dark, empty cave that smelled of _things_. Alassë really did not want to take the time to identify the things, but his nose quickly filled the information in for him: mold, decay, decomposing bodies, and something filthy. Something that he had only smelt once in his long life, on the day that Ungoliant the Awful had destroyed the two Trees.

_Mother of Manwë_, he thought in irritation and the mild beginnings of terror._ I bloody-well hate spiders._

By the time the great lumbering creature finally lumbered its way out of the darkness thirty seconds later, the Maia had drawn the thin rapier he wore out of habit. He was ready and prepared for anything, he thought. Anything, except for the harsh, creaking noise that came out of the spider's mouth:

"Whatever Shelob wants, Shelob gets.

And little orc, little Shelob wantts you.

Make up your mind to abandon all regrets.

Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through.

I always get what I hunt for.

And your juicy flesh is what I'm hungry for.

"Whatever Shelob wants, Shelob gets.

Stop all that fuss. Don't you know you can't win?

You're no exception to the rule.

I'm indestructible, you fool. Give in . . . give in . . . give in!

"Whatever Shelob wants, Shelob gets.

I always get what I aim for.

And your heart and spleen are what I came for.

Whatever Shelob wants, Shelob gets.

Put down your sword. Don't you know you can't win?

You're no exception to the rule.

I'm invincible, you fool. Give in.

Give in.

Give in."

All things considered, discretion was the greater part of valor. And Alassë was nothing if not discreet. After this little song-and-scuttle number, he stared blankly up at Shelob.

"Right. I think I'll be scarpering now – if you don't mind," he added respectfully.

An expert at scarpering, the Maia had himself invisible in an instant. It took another moment for his eyes to finish adjusting to the darkness, and then he was racing out of the nasty hole. He sliced through spider webs with his rapier easily. The webs of Ungoliant's child was no match for a blade formed in Aüle's forge. Alassë followed the faint scent of clean air, running and running until he came out of the caves at last.

_Never again,_ he vowed to himself, bracing his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. _Never, ever, ever again._


	9. Stayin' Alive

**A/N:** **One of my favorite "ships that could have been" is Aragorn/Éowyn – as expressed in my oneshot collection, Hopeless. These next two chapters will be slightly Aragorn/Éowyn centric. Apologies for the delay in posting – I'm almost finished with final exams for medical school, and I have been cramming. This chapter is based on the Bee Gees' "Staying Alive" and is dedicated to Cupcake155, who suggested the song.**

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor:<strong>

"Further," Eönwë continued irritably, "you have been known to meddle in the affairs of the high and the noble."

"If you're talking about that time in Rohan . . . It needed to happen," Alassë snapped. "Feelings needed to be properly expressed. That's my freaking calling, you imbecilic, pus-filled paper-pusher. I helped that emotionally constipated, stoic idiot talk about what he was thinking and feeling so that poor girl could heal and move on. I was doing something _good._"

The messenger scoffed. "As ever, you think only of yourself and fail to see how your actions affect others."

"Really? Really? Well, here's what happened…"

* * *

><p><strong>The Dark, Cold, and Rainy Battle of Helm's Deep<strong>

Aragorn son of Arathorn paused in front of his legion of Elvish archers. He inhaled deeply, allowing the cool, wet air to fill his lungs. Battle was approaching, and he felt nothing but excitement. Turning to give his men – er, elves – some final instructions, the Dúnadan started to sing instead:

"Well, you can tell by the way I tend to walk

That I'm a Dúnadan, no time to talk.

Always cold and never warm, I've been wand'ring round since I was born.

And now it's all right, it's okay. I'll stop this wandering someday.

No untried kid could understand the Ranger life's effect on Man

Whether you're a Ranger or whether you're a stranger

You're staying alive, stayin alive.

Feel men's courage breaking, the battlements are shaking

But we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah ha ha ha stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Ah ha ha ha stayin' alive!"

The onslaught of the orcs had now properly begun, and the Ranger was soon swept away from his friends. Drawing his sword, he rushed into the battle. Nothing mattered except for the carnage in front of him. Nothing, until suddenly he heard the voice of Legolas soaring over the tumult, clear and strong and spirited.

"Well now I shoot low, and I shoot high

And with every shot, an orc will die.

Got the straightest arrows, the swiftest shoes

I'm a fighting elf, and I just can't lose.

Aragorn, it's all right, it's okay. We'll live to see another day.

But no Elf can try to understand the effect that bloodlust has on Man.

Don't know what's up with this Ranger; he keeps on acting stranger

But we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Our Fellowship was breaking, but now revenge we're taking

And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah ha ha ha stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Ah ha ha ha stayin' alive!"

Aragorn really did not have time for his friend's worries. He was too busy sprinting for the inner parts of the keep to counsel with Théoden. Before he could reach the king, however, a figure stepped out of a shadowy corridor and clutched at his mail sleeve. It was Éowyn.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded sharply, his concern expressing itself as harshness. "Your place is safe with the women and children. Go back to them!"

But she ignored this reprimand, staring rather at the elvish necklace that he wore. She mumbled something, and the Ranger had to lean closer to hear the words.

"Life going nowhere. Somebody help me. Somebody help me, yeah.

_You_ came from nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah. I'm staying alive."

There was nothing for it now. Aragorn took her gently by the arm and started leading Éowyn back towards the barred doors that led to the caves beneath the hold. To his shock, he found himself singing. Again.

"Well, you can tell by the way I tend to walk

That I'm a taken man – no time to talk

To pretty girls – or Arwen scorned will make me wish I wasn't born

It's gonna be all right; it'll be okay. You'll find your perfect guy someday.

But I guess that I can understand the effect I have on all women.

You don't see me as just a brother, but since all we've got's each other,

Gonna keep you stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Hear the shield line breaking, feel the culvert quaking

But you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Ah ha ha ha stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah ha ha ha stayin' alive!"

Once he had gotten her safely back, Aragorn ran for the battlements, his plans to confer with Théoden abandoned. He had to check on his friends. By the time he reached the walls, they had already been breached, and Uruks were pouring into the city.

He searched in vain for a red dwarven beard or Haldir's golden armor or even Éomer's plumed helmet. In the end, it was Legolas who found him and grabbed Aragorn by the wrist.

"Come on!" he yelled, dragging the Man back towards the keep. "It's too late now. We must retreat!"

"Where's Gimli?" Aragorn asked, saying the words slowly to prevent them coming out in song.

"He and Éomer were forced back to the caves, I think," Legolas replied as the two sprinted up the stairs. "They'll be all right. They were pushed back by the fighting, but I could hear them singing the whole time."

The Ranger felt a deep sense of dread. "Singing?"

"Truly strange. Something alongs the lines of:

'Orcs came from nowhere. Somebody help me. Somebody help me, yeah.

They came from nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah. We're stayin' alive!'

But they'll be fine. Come on, Aragorn." The Man had paused near the door to the keep and was gazing towards the entrance to the caves, a look of fear on his face. "We must hurry!"

Hurry, yes. That sounded prudent. Aragorn followed the wood elf through the great stone doorway, hoping that Gimli and Éomer would indeed be all right. And that this horrible singing would cease.


	10. Don't Cry Out Loud

**A/N: This song is a little more obscure and might require a listen. It is "Don't Cry Out Loud," recorded by Melissa Manchester, used in the Broadway musical **_**The Boy from Oz**_**, and also recorded by John Barrowman of Doctor Who/Torchwood fame. This is based around JB's version.**

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor:<strong>

"And the second incident?" Eönwë demanded. "Was that necessary?"

"Of course," responded Alassë's empty patch of air pityingly.

"But she wasn't even awake to hear it."

"Sometimes," snarled the air, "the expression is what counts, not the reception."

* * *

><p><strong>The Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith, Gondor, shortly after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields<strong>

This was a ridiculous thing to be doing. And if he were caught – Aragorn shuddered at the thought. And yet, something had driven him to forego sleep and to remain hidden away in this darkened sickroom, watching over its occupant. He supposed this was because he had unfinished business here. They were not square, he and this woman. There was misunderstanding, pain, and a horde of what-might-have-been's and what-could-never-be's between them.

And so he sat in a chair by Éowyn's bedside, his dark gray eyes tracing over a face lined by grief, exhaustion, and illness. There was some dried athelas in the pouch at his belt, and a bowl of water on the small chest by the bedside. Just in case the shadow-sickness returned.

The woman stirred in her sleep, and Aragorn had to consciously prevent himself from reaching out to her. He could sing her a lullaby, however, and so he did.

"Éowyn cried the day the Grey Comp'ny left town

Cause she didn't want the war just passing by her.

So she saddled up her horse and rode to find renown.

And she danced without a fear of foes or fire.

I know a lot about her, 'cause you see

Éowyn is an awful lot like me."

The woman stirred again, and this time Aragorn allowed himself to touch her. He took her thin, pale hand in one of his heavily, callused ones.

"Don't cry out loud. Just hold it inside

And learn how to hide your feelings.

Stand tall and proud. And if you should fall,

Remember you almost had it all."

He traced the tendons and veins on the back of her hand, lowering his voice as he continued to sing,

"Éowyn saw that when they reached Pelennor Fields

The city stood besmirched, besieged, and breaking

She spurred Windfola on, refused to yield.

To save Minas Tirith - a risk worth taking

But even Éowyn could be broken, 'cause you see,

Rescue came too late because of me.

I wish that...

She would return

From the darkness inside, from her bruised and broken feelings

To fly high and proud, never again to fall.

And never to almost lose it all."

Aragorn stopped to purge the emotion from his voice. Éowyn's fidgeting had become more active. He leaned forward even further in his chair as the woman's hand curved around his own, then resumed his song in a calmer voice.

"Don't cry out loud

The battle is won, even with our great losses.

Théoden would be proud. Even though he did fall,

Remember his valour saved us

Don't cry out loud

You are not alone, among all the walking wounded

You are still proud. I wish I could fall.

I wish I were free to give you all."

This . . . this he had not expected. The words had simply slipped out, born of some dark recess of his heart that not even Aragorn knew of. He hesitated, examining the words for truthfulness. They were not entirely false, he realized.

The Dúnadan finished his song with a deepened sense of loss and longing.

"Éowyn cried the day the Grey Comp'ny left town

'Cause she didn't want the war just passing by her..."

He laid the shield-maiden's hand gently across her stomach and rose from his chair. Wrapping his great elven cloak around him, Aragorn strode silently from the room and back into the city streets.

A regretful sigh emanated from behind the chair. "Why?" it asked the emptiness shakily. "Why?"

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>:

"And that," Alassë concluded bitterly, "was the last time I visited either of them – for over a decade, anyway."

Eönwë glared at the troublesome Maia's corner. "What is wrong with you? They both married more fitting people and lived long, fulfilling lives. Your concern is wasted, as usual."

The air growled, and with a quiet pop, Alassë popped into view. The scribe gasped in surprise.

This, the prisoner's favorite form, was tall and thin, all encased in ropy muscle. It was remarkable for the prominent adam's apple, the blazing red hair that reached his chin, and the hazel eyes that smoldered fiercely deep in his skull. He could have been anyone, elf or man, warrior, farmer, or court jester.

"You try my patience, Eönwë," snapped the red-haired figure. "You have no understanding of real emotion. Or stories. All you care about is the 'Plan.' – that Eru's works are carried out, that good triumphs over evil, that important bloodlines are preserved. You care nothing for individuals, for the intricate, meandering pathways from point A to point B, for _feeling_.

"And that is why you will never understand what I have done or why it was important. We're finished here," the Maia added dismissively, turning his back on the both of them. He became invisible once again with a wave of his little finger. "Don't bother coming back. I'm done."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Any thoughts on the final Hobbit movie? See you next week a bit before Christmas!  
>AiH<strong>


	11. Yuletide Carols

**A/N: **I was going to try to post this tomorrow or the day after, but I have the patience of a small, furry mammal, so here it is a day or two early. This chapter actually parodies TWO songs. I'll let you guess and see if you can figure them out. Merry Christmas and thanks for reading! Oh, and what were your thoughts on Hobbit the 3rd?

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor: <strong>

"Sir, you really should come see this."

Eönwë glanced up from the great piles of paperwork littering his oaken desk. "What is it?" he asked the guard in the doorframe irritably. "I'm rather busy at present, as you can see."

"Something's going on with the prisoner," the guard said quickly. He had heard the Lord Eönwë was particularly unpleasant about the incarcerated Maia minstrel.

The lord in question sighed. "What now?"

"Um… you'd better come see for yourself."

Swearing on the inside, Eönwë faked a smile and laid down his quill. "Very well. Show me."

When they arrived at the cell, everything seemed normal. Everything, that is, except for the clinking of invisible sleigh bells and a tenor voice belting its version of Yule carols at the top of its lungs.

"You know Snowmane and Stybba

Windfola, Roheryn,

Hasufel, Arod,

And old Fatty-Lumpkin

But do you recall the most famous Great Steed of all?

. . .

King Thranduil, late of Mirkwood

Used to ride a giant stag

Who seemed to be prehistoric

And had some major antler swag.

. . .

All of the other quadrupeds

Used to laugh and call him names

But the Giant Stag of Mirkwood

Didn't care for equine games.

. . .

Then one stormy afternoon,

After Smaug the Dragon fell

Thranduil stormed down to the caves,

'Esgaroth, we're off to save!'

. . .

And so they charged off to battle,

The Great Stag proudly led the way,

Fighting for glittery silver gems,

And to maybe save the day."

"Oh, Illúvatar," groaned Eönwë. "Is nothing safe from him?"

"Sir?" asked the guard.

"Never mind." He staggered away from the empty cell, retreating to the relative quiet of his office. "If you need me, I'll be in my study."

"But what should we do about _him_?"

Alas, even Eönwë had a limit, and this was it. "Stuff cotton into your ears. I don't care. You can't defeat him. He will never be silent."

As if to prove his point, the voice picked up in a new song:

"You're a mean one, Eönwë.

You really are a jerk

You're as cuddly as an old troll

You're as charming as an orc,

Eönwë.

. . . . . .

You're a monster, Eönwë

Your heart's an empty hole!

Your brain is full of spiders.

You've got darkness in your soul, Eönwë.

I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole.

. . .

You're a vile one, Eönwë.

You have betrayal in your smile

You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick necrophile,

Eönwë.

Given the choice between the two of you,

I'd take the seasick necrophile . . ."


	12. Love Story

**A/N: **This chapter is based off of Taylor Swift's "Love Story" and is dedicated to Guest, who suggested the song.

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor:<strong>

It took another week before Eönwë felt prepared to handle the onslaught of snark once more. The Maia had very much enjoyed his week off. He read a rare Noldorin text that he'd been waiting to get his hands on for months; took a day trip out to Tol Eressëa to visit Mithrandir; and went fishing on the seashore. 'Twas an amazingly restorative vacation, so much so that even the non-sight of an invisible Alassë could not irritate him.

"I suppose you're here to hear of more misdeeds," sulked the normally sarcastic voice, much more subdued than its usual wont. Apparently, a week with no one else for company did wonders for Alassë's attitude.

Eönwë mentally brushed off the confusion momentarily caused by homonyms. "If you would be so kind."

* * *

><p><strong>Rath Dínen, Minas Tirith, year 120 of the Fourth Age of Middle-earth<strong>

Their meeting, all those long years ago, had begun with a song. Arwen Undómiel considered it only fitting that it end with one. Besides, if she tried to express herself in prose, she knew she would simply break down into tears.

The elf woman whirled at the sound of quiet footsteps, the pieces of her heart shattering further as she looked away from the silent form of her husband. "Alassë," she said in recognition as a slender cloaked figure stepped into view from behind a pillar. "I thought you might appear."

The figure bowed solemnly. "My lady is well-informed."

Arwen swallowed. "Can you help me?" she pled, voice harshened by grief. "That is what you do, is it not? Help at times such as this?"

"It will not remove your pain," replied Alassë gently.

"But it will help me with this parting?"

He nodded.

"Very well. How does one go about this?"

"It is simplicity itself, my lady Undómiel. Open your mouth, and the song will come."

Blinking back tears, the elf woman turned back to the effigy of the man she had loved so much for so long.

"You were so young when I first saw you

I close my eyes and the mem'ry starts:

You're standing there, singing softly in the winter air.

See the night, see the stars in your eyes now

See you falter, call out 'Lúthien.'

A strange hello.

Little did I know

. . .

That you were Aragorn – the true heir of Eléndil –

But Gilraen said, "Stay away from Undómiel,"

And you were staring at me blankly,

Begging her, 'Don't make me go.'

. . .

But she said,

'Aragorn, listen, you've got to leave that elf alone.

Should Elrond learn of this, all that you can do is run.

You may think that you're a prince and that she's a princess.

This isn't your love story, son. You must accept that.'

. . .

So thirty years later, in Caras Galadhon I see you.

We keep it quiet until we're sure that it's true.

We closed our eyes . . . escaped the world for a little while.

Oh oh

. . .

But you were Aragorn, I was the child of Half-Elven

And all the portents warned of great sorrows ahead

But you were everything to me –

I was begging you, 'Please don't go!'

. . .

And I said,

'Aragorn, come with me somewhere we can be alone.

I'll be waiting; destiny cannot be outrun.

You'll be the king, and I'll be your princess.

This is our love story, meleth. Just say yes.

. . .

Aragorn, hear me. No one can tell us how to feel.

Our path is difficult, yet this love is real.

Don't be afraid, no matter where our road leads.

It's a love story, Estel. We'll succeed.'

Oh oh

. . .

I spent forever waiting.

Wondering if fate was ever coming around.

My faith in us was fading.

When news of your vict'ry came to town.

. . .

And I said,

'Aragorn, forgive me, I was feeling so alone.

The waiting's over; our time has finally come.

Is this bliss in my head? I don't know what to think.'

You took me in your arms and in June we two were wed."

Here, for the first time, Arwen hesitated. She was weeping freely now, tears streaming down her face and soaking through the neck of her black gown. The pain in her chest was so great that she could hardly breathe. And yet, it was not finished, and so the words forced themselves out past the great lump in her throat.

"Aragorn, you left me, and now I'm once again alone.

I love you, and that's all I have for now.

We knew this would end – cannot fail at the last test

Of our love story – we long ago said yes.

Oh oh oh oh oh

. . . .

Oh, you were so young when I first saw you."

She slid to the ground beside the tomb, kneeling against it, her hands clasped over the stone ones of _him_. Estel. Elessar Telcontar. Thorongil. Strider. Wingfoot. _Her_ Aragorn. The tears came fast and thick, racking her body with sorrow. Still, Arwen Undómiel remembered her manners.

"Hannon le," she gasped between sobs.

There was a light, warm pressure on her shoulder, the touch of a sympathetic hand, and then it vanished. Arwen knew Alassë had gone, returned to wherever it was that the Maia lived, leaving her to grieve in private. Somehow, she now felt more alone than ever.


	13. My Precious Will Go On

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay. New semester + sinusitis = very tired, zombie AiH.

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

Alassë continued on with his next story without pausing to allow Eönwë to speak. "The next incident occurred in the Dead Marshes, partway through the War of the Ring. Occasionally, my sense of direction seems to fail me spectacularly. This was one of those times…"

* * *

><p><strong>The Dead Marshes, a place with no nice, crunchable birdses to eat<strong>

Talking to ourselves is what we does, Precious. It's what we always has done, for years and years and ages uncounted. Even before we said goodbye to the cruel Yellow Face, we spokes to ourselves. And we always has, throughout the long dark beneath the mountains and the hunts for stringy goblin flesh and the journeys across the land following the Precious and searching for the miserable Baggins.

Talking to ourselves is normal. Singing – singing to ourselves – we does this also. We sings to fish, we sings to the Pale Face, we sings to our memories. But this night, the singing was different. We remembered the song. We cannots forget the song. Once sung, it never goes away. It lingers in our mind, it lingers in our throat. And even when we are following Master and the nasty stupid fat hobbit around, the song is sung. It sings itself.

Every night in our dreams,

We sees you. We feels you.

That is how we knows you go on.

Far across the distance

Wherever Baggins tooks you.

You have come to show you go on.

. . .

Near, far, wherever you are.

We believes that the Precious goes on.

Once more, someone opens the door

And they puts on the Precious

And Precious will go on and on

. . .

Precious could touch us one time

And last for ten lifetimes

And never let go till we're gone.

Dear Precious, oh, how we loved you.

That dear time we holds to.

In our heart, you'll always go on.

. . .

Near, far, wherever you are.

We believes that the Precious goes on.

Once more, someone openes the door

And we feels you in our heart

And the Precious goes on and on.

. . .

You're here. There's nothing we fears.

For we knows that the Precious goes on.

We'll stay forever this way.

Precious is safe on my hand

And Precious will go on and on.


	14. All About That Draught

**A/N:** This chapter is based on "All About That Bass" by Meghan Trainor and is dedicated to HeartoftheArtsari. Last week's chapter was "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion.

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"I have here, an affidavit signed by the Ent known as Fangorn. Would you care to essay a guess as to its contents?"

The empty corner scoffed. "Please, Eönwë. What could I, who you declare flighty, have to do with Ents? Surely you don't suspect me of having the patience to bother them? I mean, the Lay of the Entwives was really not my fault. That was totally Fangorn's doing."

Eönwë's mouth pursed. His wife was beginning to complain about the stress lines that had sprouted across his face since this ridiculous assignment was conceived. "Just answer the question."

"I have absolutely _no_ idea what Fangorn could be griping about now. Trust me. I avoid Ents. They turn even the fastest of jigs into a dirge."

"Hmm." Perhaps the one and only thing they agreed on. "So. Shall I read this missive to you?"

"Read away, read away," replied the emptiness cheerfully. "I'm simply perishing of curiosity."

* * *

><p><strong>Fangorn Forest, June of the 1st Year of the Fourth Age of Middle-earth.<strong>

In the days to come, when Treebeard would look back on this moment and remember his farewells to his little friends, he would never after be able to forget that Hobbits were a hasty folk. For, you see, young Ents drank deep daily of the Entdraught, with nary a change in their temperaments. Alas, when the young Halflings drank, they tended to become a bit manic. In fact, it was turning what had been meant to be a solemn farewell into a ridiculous minstrel show. Treebeard was _not_ amused. He was also mildly scandalized.

Merry and Pippin didn't notice anything. They were too busy dancing about the glade, drinking from the bowls of Entdraught in their brown hands, jumping and skipping and splashing the precious drink everywhere. Paying attention to Ent facial expressions (difficult to interpret at the best of times) was beyond their capacity.

"Because you know we're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught,

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard

We're all about that draught, 'bout that draught.

. . .

Yeah, it's pretty clear. We've shot past four-two.

But we can smoke it, smoke it

Like we're supposed to do.

'Cuz we got that pipeweed that Saruman craves

And all the right friends in all the high places.

. . .

See them tobacconists, trying' to work a swap

We know that Leaf ain't real Longbottom, so make it stop.

No, we ain't snooty, snooty, just lightin' up.

And I think I've grown an inch

Since I first picked up this cup

. . .

Yeah, well, Treebeard, he told us don't worry about the side-

Effects. You young trees need to drink some Ent-draught to grow up right.

So what if it doesn't taste quite like ale from the Green

Dragon, it seems to be changing our heights in the extreme.

. . .

Because you know we're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught,

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard

We're all about that draught, 'bout that draught.

. . .

We'll bring Bullroarin' back.

Go on and tell the hobbit lasses that

,Tall's here to stay. We know you think it's pat,

But we're here to tell ya,

Every inch of you is perfect from three even to four-five.

. . .

Yeah, well, Treebeard, he told us don't worry about the side-

Effects. You young trees need to drink some Ent-draught to grow up right.

So what if it doesn't taste quite like ale from the Green

Dragon, it seems to be changing our heights in the extreme.

. . .

Because you know we're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught,

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard

We're all about that draught, 'bout that draught.

. . .

Because you know we're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught,

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard

We're all about that draught, 'bout that draught.

. . .

Because you know we're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard.

We're all about that draught,

'Bout that draught, of Treebeard

We're all about that draught, 'bout that draught.

. . .

'Bout that draught, 'bout that draught.

Hey, hey, oooh.

We kinda like this draught . . ."

Watching the young hobbits capering about, singing like mad folks, Treebeard realized with a sinking feeling that he was never going to be able to forget this. Never. Not even if he tried.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **The suggestion box is once again open. Any songs you'd like to see?


	15. Here Comes the End

**A/N:** This chapter is inspired by "Here Comes the Sun" by the Beatles and is dedicated to DarylDixon'sgirl1985. Thanks for the suggestion!

* * *

><p><strong>The Slopes of Mount Doom, at the End of All Things<strong>

There weren't many things that Samwise Gamgee was a hundred percent sure of anymore. To be honest, he was mildly surprised that he was still alive. And yet, here he sat with his master, crouched on the edge of a mountain while the world fell down around them.

Mister Frodo had stopped talking a minute ago. The older hobbit was breathing rapidly, clutching the bleeding stump of his finger and looking panicked.

"Sam," Frodo mumbled, closing his eyes against the pain. "We made it."

Sam tried to smile, even though he felt like crying. "Yes, we did, Mister. Frodo. Yes, we did." He cleared his throat, intending to sing an old lullaby from the Shire. What came out was something different entirely.

"Here comes the end. Here comes the end.

And I say, it's all right.

. . .

Mister Frodo, it's been a long, hard, awful journey.

Mister Frodo, it seems like years since we came here.

. . .

Here comes the end, the end of all things.

But at least we're all right.

. . .

Mister Frodo, the world is exploding around us.

Mister Frodo, it feels like years since life was clear.

. . .

Here comes the end, end of all things.

And I say, it's all right.

. . .

End, end, end, here it comes.

End, end, end, here it comes.

End, end, end, here it comes.

End, end, end, here it comes

. . .

Mister Frodo, keep pressure on the hand that's bleeding.

Mister Frodo, it seems like years since the sun was here."

Sam paused. Suddenly, the blackness that obscured the sky was being rolled back, pushed away by a great wind. His voice became noticeably stronger now.

"Here comes the end. Here comes the end.

But just now, we're all right.

. . .

Here comes the sun, chasing off the dark.

It's all right. It's all right."

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"You're rather a defeatist sometimes, aren't you?" inquired Eönwë as he made some final notes in his ledger for the day.

To this, Alassë had no answer.


	16. Ding Dong Sauron is Dead

**A/N: **This song may be a bit more obscure, unless any of you are into ballroom dancing. Even then, it will probably be obscure. The song is "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead" by Alex Swings Oscar Sings, and is a fantastic East Coast triple swing. Super fun to dance to. Also, I thought it very appropriate. If you have five minutes or so, I recommend finding the song and giving it a listen.

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"Do you attempt to deny that you once conspired with Mithrandir?"

"Conspired?"

"That it what I said, yes."

"I wouldn't call it conspiring, exactly. More like letting the old graybeard have some fun for once."

"Mithrandir is younger than both of us, Alassë."

"Ye-es, but neither of us looks that ancient to mortal eyes, do we?"

"Er... you might have a point there."

"That's what I thought."

* * *

><p><strong>Fields of Cormallen, during the great coma of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee<strong>

A Southern Ranger, clad all in brown and green, accidentally knocked into the old man on his hurried way through the camp.

"Excuse me, sir," mumbled the Ranger. He attempted to step past the older man, but a wizened hand closed tightly around his bicep.

* * *

><p>"You're somewhat out of your territory, old friend," chuckled Gandalf the White. "What brings you here, Alassë?"<p>

The Ranger straightened and removed his hood. His green eyes gleamed. "Well met, Mithrandir." With an intricate hand gesture, he half-bowed. "How long has it been? An age or more?"

Gandalf pursed his lips. "Longer than that, if memory serves. You've been careful to avoid me since I came here. Am I right in thinking so?"

Alassë shrugged in a helpless gesture. "Manwë has put his sniffer dog on my trail. He seems to think that what I do is undignified and not befitting a Maiar. What think you, Olorín?"

"I think an ending has come, and that much sadness has departed from the world. We could all use a little more merriment."

The other man smiled wolfishly. "May I?"

"By all means. I am curious to see what your influence has in store."

After a significant look into Gandalf's eyes, Alassë nodded. "Very well. Begin whenever you are ready."

Gandalf moved to the center of the glade and extended his arms. "I'm ready." He took another deep breath and began to sing:

"A picture of what might have been

Had I chosen another way

A memory haunting constantly

Through every single day

. . .

It was a Balrog's call **(It was a Balrog's call)**

Or an elf lord's fall **(Or an elf lord's fall)**

The threat was always real **(Threat was always real)**

Wasn't just a way I could feel.

. . .

Ding, dong, Sauron is dead.

Can finally get that eyeball out of my head.

Hey ho, he gave up the ghost

I don't know what cheers the most.

Ding dong, Sauron is dead.

I know I'm not feeling sad.

There's no sorrow or regret.

'Cause ding ding dong, Sauron is dead.

. . .

Sometimes he showed up in my dreams

A lidless, seething eye

I watched his shadow spread on Men

Saw them believe in all His lies

. . .

It was an evil call **(It was an evil call)**

Or a fated fall **(Or a fated fall)**

The danger was very real **(It was very real)**

Not simply just a way I would feel.

. . .

Ding, dong, Sauron is dead.

Can finally get that eyeball out of my head.

Hey ho, he gave up the ghost

I don't know what cheers the most.

Ding dong, Sauron is dead.

I know I'm not feeling sad.

There's no sorrow or regret.

'Cause ding ding dong, Sauron is dead.

. . .

It was a Balrog's call **(It was a Balrog's call)**

Or a Vala's fall **(Or an Vala's fall)**

The threat was always real **(Threat was always real)**

Wasn't just a way I could feel.

. . .

It was Morgoth's call **(It was Morgoth's call)**

That made a Maia fall **(Made a Maia fall)**

It was not imagination, no.

I'm not feeling sad.

Ding dong, Sauron is dead.

. . .

Ding, dong, Sauron is dead.

Can finally get that eyeball out of my head.

Hey ho, he gave up the ghost

I don't know what cheers the most.

Ding dong, Sauron is dead.

I know I'm not feeling sad.

There's no sorrow or regret.

'Cause ding ding dong, Sauron is dead.

. . .

Ding dong, Sauron is dead.

Ding dong, Sauron is dead.

Hey ho, he gave up the ghost.

Hey ho, he gave up the ghost.

Wing a ding dong, Sauron is dead.

. . .

There's no sorrow and no regrets.

'Cause ding ding dong –

Sauron is dead."

Laughing, Gandalf turned to where the Ranger had stood moments previous. Unsurprisingly, the Maia had already vanished. The old wizard chuckled to himself. For a showman, Alassë was really quite the recluse.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **What song would you like to see next? Thanks for all the suggestions!

AiH


	17. A Little Dwarf

**A/N:** This chapter comes to you care of "A Little Priest" from Sondheim's Sweeney Todd. **Smaug is in bold; **_Bilbo is in italics__**. **_Bon appetit!

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"Eönwë, did I ever tell you about my adventure with the dragon?"

"Eru give me strength."

"Well, actually, it was someone else's adventure with a dragon . . . but it _does_ make quite the tale."

* * *

><p><strong>Deep in the Recesses of Mount Erebor. Smaug the Dragon lying on a pile of gold. Enter the Miserable Burglar, Bilbo Baggins. After a brief discussion of burglary, thieving, and dwarfish treachery, they commence with the following exchange.<strong>

B: _Seems a downright shame_

S: **Shame**?

B: _Seems an awful waste. _

_ Dale consume by flame,_

_ Not a fair lass... lad... left_

_ not in the whole place._

_ Buildings tumbled down_

_ Palaces defaced_

_ Corpses on the ground, all around, death abounds._

_ Seems an awful waste_

_ I mean, with the price of life what it is, when you get it, if you get it…_

S: **Ha**!

B:_ You haven't go it!_

_ Take for instance my fat pony and its running_

_ Even that poor creature tried its best to save its life_

_ And these skeletons show signs of putting up a fight_

_ How can you only think of how they taste?_

. . .

S: **Mr. Baggins, what a foolish notion!**

B:_ Well, it does seem a waste._

S: **I am a dragon and quite hungry as always.**

B: _Think_ _about_ _it._

S: **Mr. Baggins, how I've lived without encountering your scent, I'll never know. **

** How delectable! Also, you're detectable!**

B: _Think about it! Lots of meal don't need to be gobbled up alive._

_Why not? Go veg! Why not try?_

. . .

S: **How droll. For what's the sound of the world out there?**

B: _What, Mr. Smaug? What, Mr. Smaug? What is that sound?_

S: **Those crunching noises pervading the air?**

B: _No, Mr. Smaug, no, Mr. Smaug. That's not what I've found._

S: **It's beasts devouring beasts, my dear. And who are you to deny it in here?**

B: _That's why you ought to deny it in here!_

_. . . _

S: **These are desperate times, Mr. Baggins. And desperate measures are called for.**

B: - pulling something out of his pocket - _Here we are. Right from Beorn's oven._

S: **What** **is** **that?**

B: _It's cram. Have a little cram._

S: **Is it any good?**

B: _Sir, it's too good, by damn. Then again, they don't contain man or beast's flesh, so they stay quite fresh._

S: **What a load of crap.**

B: _At least you won't get fat?_

S: **Haven't you got elf-maiden or something like that?**

B: _No, you see the trouble with maidens is they don't have the patience to be et. Cram's the best ... _

. . .

B: _Cheese is rather nice_

S: **If your species is mice.**

B: _Have some bread and veggies to follow since co-onstipation's not nice._

S: **Anything that's lean?**

B: _Well, then, since you're splendid and royal you might enjoy boiled string beans. Anyway they're clean. Though of course they taste of wherever they've been!_

. . .

S: **What if I acquire, maidens with fire?**

B: _Mercy, no sir, look closer, you buy food from the grocer!_

S: **Maidens are quicker, grocer's thicker...**

B: _No, you can't roast the grocer - that's mean!_

. . .

S: **The history of the world, young man**

B: _Save a lot of graves, do a lot of families favors._

S: **Is those below fearing those up above**

B: _People aren't slaves, even if they come in 12 flavors_

S: **How gratifying for once to know, that those above still eat those down below**

B: _That those above won't eat those down below!_

. . .

B: _What is that?_ -looking at a bone in Smaug's teeth -

S: **It was sheep. Finest little sheep. Or was it a whole shepherd's flock peppered with the actual shepherd on top? And I've just begun - here's an old sailor so oily, he's served with a doily - have some!**

B: _Sounds a lot like fun. But if you'll excuse me, I'm going to run!_

S: **Once ate a town crier - or was it a choir?**

B: _Ah, sir dragon, you really should let them live - ideally_

S: **Monsieur thief, I sense a motif!**

B: _Yes, and I fear this conversation is done. I'll come again when you don't have people on the menu._

. . .

B: _Have charity towards the world, great sir?_

S: **Why keep up this foolish talk?**

B: _You can feed yourself without murder._

S: **And where's the fun in that, burglar?**

B: _You do not need to kill great or small. No, you shouldn't kill anyone, meaning anyone - I mean __anyone_

S: **I'll eat everyone!**

B: _At all!_


	18. Part of Your World

**A/N: **This chapter is based on "Part of Your World" from _The Little Mermaid._ Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"Of course, there was also the time in Erebor. Dwarves can be so terribly greedy, don't you think so?"

Eönwë sighed. There was no way he was getting paid well enough for this job. "Aüle himself has lodged a complaint with our office about that incident."

"He would. Would you like to hear the full story?"

"Go ahead . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>The Lonely Mountain, not that long ago<strong>

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror stalked about the great Hall. He was king at last. The King Beneath the Mountain, the King of Carven Stone, the King of Golden Fountains had come unto his own. And yet . . . something was off. Something was wrong. Somehow, he still felt unfulfilled.

Someone called his name from an antechamber, and Thorin opened his mouth to growl at them, to tell them to leave him alone. He couldn't be bothered today, not by the people from Laketown, not by the awful elves. He just didn't care.

But instead of the growl, something else came out instead. It was a song, and it went something like this:

"Look at this hoard; isn't it neat?  
>Wouldn't you think my inheritance is complete?<br>Wouldn't you think I'm the dwarf -  
>The dwarf who has everything?<p>

. . .

Look at this trove, treasures untold.  
>How many wonders can one mountain hold?<br>Looking around here, you'd think,  
>Sure. Thorin's got everything.<p>

. . .

I've got weapons and armor aplenty.  
>I've got gemstones and diamonds galore.<br>You want mithril coats? I've got twenty.  
>But who cares? No big deal. I want more.<p>

. . .

I want to be as my fathers were.  
>I want to see, want to see the forges,<br>Crowded with dwarves and glowing with -  
>What do you call it? Oh, heat.<p>

. . .

Mining for iron, you don't get too far.  
>More skill is required for smelting mithril.<br>Dealing with Elf-folk who - what's that word again?  
>Cheat.<p>

. . .

Back then they'd walk. Back then they'd run.  
>Back then our gold gleamed true as the sun.<br>Wealthy and free. Wish I could be, back in that world.

. . .

What would I give, if I could live  
>free under my mountain?<br>What would I pay to spend a day  
>Carousing in Dale?<p>

. . .

Back in Dain's land, they'd understand.  
>They'd help us defend our gold from the dragon.<br>Instead these people - really like sheeple -  
>Want me to fail.<p>

. . .

And why don't I know where the Arkenstone  
>Is lying hidden? Or did Smaug eat it?<br>In his great fire, it couldn't have - what's the word?  
>Burned.<p>

. . .

Now, it's my turn.  
>Wouldn't I love, love to rule both below and above?<br>Out of mem'ry. Now I will be.  
>King of this hoard."<p>

* * *

><p>Haven't heard from any of you in a little while. You still out there? :) Happy Valentine's Day!<p> 


	19. Noldorian Rhapsody

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to Guest, who suggested I do a parody of "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. Elrohir is singing in _italics_. Elladan is singing in plain text. Celebrían is singing in **bold**.

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

Eönwë strolled through the dungeon to the traitor's cell. _This is the last time_, he thought, recalling that the Maia's trial was due to start the next day. He found the idea rather cheering. At last, this ridiculousness would be finished.

"What have you come to bother me about now?" snarked the empty corner.

The herald settled down into a folding chair that he had brought for the day's interrogation. "Today, you will answer for your crimes against the family of Elrond."

"Really? That merits your attention?"

"Everything merits our attention, Alassë. Just tell the damn story."

"Very well . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>Eregion, near the Redhorn Pass, Year 2509 of the Third Age<strong>

_Is this our real life? Or is this just fantasy?_

_Caught in this landslide – no escape from reality._

_Open my eyes, look up to the skies and see._

_I'm just a elf lord, I need no sympathy_

_Because I'm riding fast, riding slow_

_Tracking orcs, even so_

_Anyway their trail goes, doesn't really matter to me, to me._

_. . . _

_Mama, just killed an orc,_

_Put a sword against his head,_

_Pulled my crossbow, now he's dead._

_Mama, the fight was almost won._

_But now, somehow, victory is thrown away._

_. . ._

_Mama, oooh,_

_Couldn't leave you there to die._

_Elladan – if we don't reach Ada this time tomorrow,_ -

Carry on, carry on, for else nothing really matters.

**. . . **

**Too late, my time has come**

**Their claws ripped down my spine**

**Body's aching all the time.**

**Goodbye, precious children. I've got to go.**

**Got to leave Middle-earth behind for Elvenhome.**

**. . . **

Mama, oooh, (**follow Eärendil homeward)**

I've never seen you cry.

**I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all**

**. . . **

**I see a little silhouetto of an orc**

**Elrohir, Elrohir, can you find out where he's lurking?**

Her mind now is blighted

Very, very frightening me

**Where is Elrond? **(Where is Ada?)

**Where is Elrond? **(Where is Ada?)

**Elrond, make them let me go!**

**Oh, let me go!**

_. . . _

_We're just two elf lords, rescuing our mother_

_She's just an elf lady, her mind torn asunder_

_Spare her, Varda, from this insanity!_

**. . .**

**Here they come, Elladan, will you let me go?**

Dear mother, no, we cannot let you go (_Let her go?)_

Dear mother, we cannot let you go (_Let her go?)_

Oh mother, do not leave us alone (**Let me go!)**

Do not leave us alone (**Let me go!)**

Please, we beg, do not leave us alone, oh

No, no, no, no, no, no, no

_. . . _

_Oh, Naneth, Naneth, _**(My dear boys, let me go!)**

**Mandos has a siege-chair put aside for me, for me, for me.**

So you think you can sail away and leave us to cry?

So you think you can leave us and just say goodbye?

Oh, mother, can't do this to us, mother.

Just gotta get home, just gotta get home now to Ada.

(_Oh yeah, oh yeah)._

**. . . **

**Nothing really matters.**

**Anyone can see.**

**Nothing really matters.**

**Nothing really matters to me.**

**. . . **

**Follow Eärendil homeward **…


	20. I Will Always Love You

**A/N:** This week's parody is based on "I Will Always Love You" by Dolly Parton (sorry, folks, I tend to prefer her version). Unfortunately, the lyrics and the melody do not lend themselves to much word-smithery, so the parody aspect of this one is perhaps less than usual. Je suis desolée.

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"A thousand curses upon you, Alassë. I told you to tell the story, not to sing it in three part harmony. How do you even - never mind. I don't really want to know."

The corner remained haughtily silent.

Eönwë sighed. "Fine. Finish telling me your story. You can sing. If you must."

* * *

><p><strong>Rivendell, Year 2510 of the Third Age<strong>

"Celebrían. Is there anything that I can say to persuade you not to leave?"

Celebrían turned to face her husband, tears slipping down her cheeks, her eyes dark with sorrow. Placing her hand atop her husband's, she sighed and began to sing:

"If I should stay

I would only put you in harm's way

So I'll go, but I know

I'll think of you every league of the way.

. . .

And I . . . I will always love you, ooh.

Will always love you.

You, dear Elrond, you. Mmm-mmm.

. . .

Millennia of memories

That's all I'm taking with me.

It's come, this day,

Namarië.

We both know I can't be what you, you need.

. . .

And I . . . I will always love you.

I . . . love the children too, ooh, ooh.

. . .

I hope fate treats Arwen kind.

And I hope Elrohir has all he's dreamed of.

And I wish Elladan joy and happiness

But above all this, I wish you love.

. . .

And I . . . I will always love you

From Tol Eressëa

I will always love you.

I will always love you.

From Tol Eressëa, I . . . I will always love you.

. . .

You, Elrond. I love you.

Ooh, even in Tol Eressëa . . . I will always love you."


	21. I'll Make Fighting Men Out of You

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to Cupcake155, who suggested "I'll Make a Man Out of You" from Disney's Mulan. Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

"Just a few more things to clear up. While we have discussed your obsession with the family of Elrond Half-Elven, we have not yet fully canvassed your fixation on the Battle of Helm's Deep. You seem to have been particularly active that evening."

"What can I say? It was a busy battlefield. Erm . . . what were you referring to again?"

"The training montage you saddled the Lord Aragorn with."

"Oh, yes . . . that. Well, you see, it went something like this..."

* * *

><p><strong>The Battle for Helm's Deep, dark, dismal, and damp as all get out.<strong>

Aragorn surveyed his "troops" with a feeling of deep despair. The Ranger knew that he could not communicate his doubts to the recruits, or they would all be doomed from the start. Right. Inhaling, he prepared for a quick, motivational speech. To his great surprise, a song came out instead.

"Let's get down to business, to defeat the Dun-

Lendings, though you're all granthers, and their great-grandsons.

You're the saddest bunch I ever trained

But you can bet before we're through.

Misters, I'll make fighting men out of you.

. . .

Tranquil as an elf-maid

But a Balrog within

Once you reject all weakness

You are sure to win.

You're a feeble, blind, arthritic lot -

Or else you haven't got a clue.

Somehow, I'll make Rohirrim out of you.

. . ."

While Aragorn paused for breath, he listened to the men grumbling amongst themselves and gesturing at Haldir's armor.

"I'm never gonna catch my breath."

_"Say goodbye to those who loved me."_

"Boy, was I at fool at Yule to grow so fat."

_"The thought of war scares me to death."_

"Hope those arrows don't pierce right through me."

"Now I really wish that I was wearing _that_…"

(this last with a pointed look at the Elven armor)

. . .

"Rohirrim

We must be swift as one of the Mearas,

Rohirrim

With all the force of Helm Hammerhand,

Rohirrim

With all the strength of ten full éoreds.

So that we can protect our dear homeland.

. . ."

Sensing that they were at last beginning to grasp his vision, Aragorn leapt atop the parapet encircling the Deep and continued,

"Time is racing toward us till our foes arrive

Heed the King's orders, and you might survive.

You're unsuited for the rage of war.

But you're all that I've got to use.

How can I save this keep, just with you?

. . .

Rohirrim

We must be swift as one of the Mearas

Rohirrim

With all the force of Helm Hammerhand,

Rohirrim

With all the strength of ten full éoreds.

So that we can protect our dear homeland.

. . .

Rohirrim

We must be swift as one of the Mearas

Rohirrim

With all the force of Helm Hammerhand,

Rohirrim

With all the strength of ten full éoreds.

So that we can protect our dear homeland."


	22. Mordor Funk

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to Guest, who suggested "Uptown Funk." I have a feeling this might not quite be what you originally envisioned, but I just decided to have fun with it . . . :)

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

Alassë had grown extremely tired of telling his story to an unsympathetic audience. He could not imagine being more bored. And so, when Eönwë entered the hallway on this fine morning, the prisoner did not even bother attempting to play nice. Instead, he began belting one of his least favorite songs, acquired during an extremely unfortunate incident underneath Barad-Dûr. As he sang, he could see them still, those evileyed – blackhanded - bowlegged – flinthearted – clawfingered – foulbellied – bloodthirsty – those vermin of orcs.

"This whip. That ice cold

Fear in your heart. That red gold.

Bleeding down broke backs.

Bruised backs.

Torture masterpieces.

Moaning, Groaning,

Killing 'em slow in this city.

Got chains on, with cruel iron.

Gonna wet themselves, they so skittish.

. . .

It's too hot (hot damn)

Stick a coal in to burn that tongue off, man

It's too hot (hot damn)

Get a dragon to give ya a roasting, man

It's too hot (hot damn)

Screaming the same of some dead woman

It's too hot (hot damn)

No, we don't care about your money.

Break 'em down.

. . .

What good is hope about to do ya?

Dying – but not until we're through, yeah.

What good is Varda gonna do ya?

'Cause Mordor Funk gonna cut into ya.

'Cause Mordor Funk gonna slice into ya.

'Cause Mordor Funk gonna rip into ya.

A thousand years, and we've honed our craft.

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Hey hey hey oh!

. . .

Stop. Wait a minute.

Take this cup – there's some acid in it.

Take a sip, and then you'll retch.

Burning up! Your esophagus.

Then we'll slowly, drag off, all your damn fingernails.

If you scream out - please scream out –

Then we'll use the cat and her nine tails.

. . .

It's too hot (hot damn)

Called a blacksmith to fit you a collar, man

It's too hot (hot damn)

Get an Uruk to give you a cuddle, man

It's too hot (hot damn)

Fool, begging for your mother, man

It's too hot (hot damn)

And we still don't want your money.

Break 'em down.

. . .

What good is pleading gonna do ya?

Dying – but not until we're through, yeah.

What good is Varda gonna do ya?

'Cause Mordor Funk gonna cut into ya.

'Cause Mordor Funk gonna slice into ya.

'Cause Mordor Funk gonna rip into ya.

Two thousand years, and we've honed our craft.

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Hey hey hey oh!

. . .

Before we leave,

I'm gonna tell y'all a little something.

Mordor Funk you up. Mordor Funk you up.

Mordor Funk you up. Mordor Funk you up.

I said, Mordor Funk you up. Mordor Funk you up.

Mordor Funk you up. Mordor Funk you up.

. . .

Come on, scream

Just cry now.

If you in pain

Tell us why now.

If you in misery

Then wail now –

Don't think that

We'll care now.

Come on, scream

Just cry now.

If you in pain

Tell us why now.

Three thousand years, and we've honed our craft

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Don't believe us – just watch!

Hey hey hey – oh!

. . .

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up (say whaaaat?)

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up.

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up (say whaaaat?)

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up.

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up (say whaaaat?)

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up.

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up (say whaaaat?)

Mordor Funk you up, Mordor Funk you up."

It was something of a relief when Eönwë's face paled to the color of greenish skimmed milk. The messenger spun on his heel and departed, leaving Alassë to wonder if isolation was really what he had wanted after all.


	23. Pompeii

**A/N:** This chapter is based on Bastille's "Pompeii." Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>March 25th, 1421 Shire Reckoning, Bag End, Hobbiton, West Farthing, the Shire, Middle-earth<strong>

Frodo Baggins paced his study. With every round, forward and back across the well-worn oaken floor, he glanced once at the large book occupying his desk, its gold-edged pages wrapped in red leather. He was about two-thirds of the way through his account of the Great War of the Ring and had today just finished writing of the events of Cirith Ungol, when he decided to take a break.

The pacing was prompted by two reasons. First, jotting down Sam's account of the orc stronghold had taken nearly two hours and left Frodo's hand quite painfully cramped. Second, Frodo wasn't quite sure he could take any more memories at present.

Bag End was mercifully silent today. Sam and Rosie were out doing the shopping, and they had taken baby Elanor with them. While "Uncle Frodo" was occasionally allowed to watch the infant, Rosie had decided to make this trip to the market a family outing and leave "Poor Mr. Frodo" to do his writing in peace.

Not for the first time, Frodo wondered if that had really been such a good idea. He hummed under his breath as he paced. Not something of Bilbo's – no, this time, it was a song of his own making.

"I am left, once again, to my own devices.

Empty days now fall away with nothing to show.

. . .

And the Shire's been scoured clean

And now Hobbits are heroes.

But dark rolls over my soul

Pain and grief from two years ago.

. . .

But if you close your eyes

Does it almost feel like

Nothing's changed at all

And if you close your eyes

Does it almost feel like

You never reached Mordor?

How can I ever go back to how life was before this?

How can I ever go back to how life was before this?

. . .

We were swept up and away, purged of our vices.

Now our homes do not fit comfortably around us.

. . .

And my walls keep tumbling down

Bringing memories that I dread

Images of a wheeling eye

Making me wish that I were dead.

. . .

But if you close your eyes

Does it almost feel like

We never left at all?

And if you close your eyes

Does it almost feel like

We were always here, before?

How am I gonna find a way to live despite this?

How am I gonna leave my friends to deal with all this?

. . .

Oh, where could I begin

To lay bare the pain within?

Oh, where do I begin

To forgive myself my sins?

. . .

And the façade keeps tumbling down

Lurking shadows all I know

No peace, wherever I search

Not even in my own Hobbit hole.

. . .

But when I close my eyes

I wonder if I'll ever

Feel somewhat healed at all

And if I close my eyes,

I can almost feel

That wraithblade pierce my soul.

. . .

I'm tired of trying to be an optimist about this.

Oh, what's the point of even faking peace about this?

. . .

And if I close my eyes,

Oh, it almost feels like

I never came home at all."


	24. The Trial

**A/N:** And here we are, the trial of Alassë, filthiest of traitors. This chapter features a parody of "What I Did For Love" from _A Chorus Line_ and featured on Glee. Only two more chapters to go!

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor<strong>

Alassë was conscious of very little. He stood, wreathed in chains, at the end of a long hall, and knew that somewhere in the darkness ahead was the dais where Manwë, Lord of Air, and his fellows sat in judgement. He could hear the breath of Eönwë, hovering behind his left shoulder, a silent guard. The Maia's long minstrel's fingers twitched in front of him as he listened to the accusations being read out.

At long last, Manwë's deep voice sounded from on high, demanding to know what the musician had to say for himself.

Well . . . Alassë had practiced his defense in the wee hours of the morning, in a desperate attempt to find something that sounded even the tiniest bit convincing. He had come up with nothing. So, instead, he decided to declare his defiance of the court, of their so-called "justice" in the way that came naturally to him.

"Kiss freedom goodbye

The sweetness and the sorrow

'Serves him right,' I hear from you

But I can't regret

What I did for song, what I did for song.

. . .

Look, my eyes are dry

My gift was mine to follow

This fate was one I always knew

And I won't forget what I did for song

What I did for song.

. . .

Gone,

Music is never gone

As life travels on,

Songs are what we remember.

. . .

Kiss today goodbye

And point me toward tomorrow

I did what I had to do.

Won't forget, can't regret

What I did for song

. . .

What I did for song

What I did for . . .

Song,

Songs are never gone.

As life journeys on,

Music's what we'll remember.

. . .

Kiss endless bliss goodbye

And point me towards real sorrow.

. . .

Point me towards this sorrow.

I did what I had to do.

Won't forget, can't regret

What I did for song, what I did for song.

. . .

What I did for song."


	25. What Is This Feeling?

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to Dantei, who requested "What Is This Feeling?" from _Wicked. _In the interest of making this one a bit more legible, I'm simply attaching the legend here. Enjoy!

Shagrat - captain of the tower of Cirith Ungol _Italics_

Gorbag – leader of patrol from Minas Morgul. **Bold**

Shagrat and Gorbag – **_Bold Italics_**

Orc Horde – normal text

* * *

><p><strong>My lord the Nazgûl, Witch-King of Angmar<strong>

_My lord Sauron_

**_There's been some confusion over a prisoner at the pass_**

_But of course we'll keep it breathing_

**But of course we'll interrogate it**

**_For I know that's how you want things handled here._**

**_Yes, there's been some confusion, for you see my co-captain is_**

**Obsessive and a martinet and altogether quite impossible to describe . . .**

_Greedy._

_. . . _

**What is this feeling, so sudden and new?**

_I get a headache when I lay eyes on you._

**My blood is rushing.**

_The prisoner's squealing._

**My rage is crushing.**

**_What is this feeling? Scorching like a flame. Does it have a name? Yes . . . yes_**

**_. . . _**

**_Loathing! Total, grand, horrific loathing!_**

**Such a toad - **

_You scum –_

**You roving pr– **

**_Let's just say – I loathe it all!_**

_Your precious Nazgûl is 'bout to fall_

**Even the biggest bosses screw it all**

**_What if Lugbúrz is lying?_**

**_Orcs everywhere are dying, _**

**_Victory the Tarks are crying. _**

_It's each orc for himself__** (**_**himself****_)_**

**. . . **

**_Now our old alliance's in the past_**

**_In these dark days, friendship can't last_**

**_And it seems I will be loathing, loathing you forever long._**

**_. . . _**

Cirith Ungol Orc Horde:

Come on, Gorbag, we are just too good

To let him insult us, I don't think we should.

Disembowel him, rip his guts out!

Take this tower back for Morgul!

Come on, Gorbag, don't disappoint us!

**Well, that shiny coat is rather tempting . . .**

. . .

Come on, Gorbag, why should we try

To follow orders just like this guy

Captain, let us tell you, we're all on your side!

. . .

Background:

We share your loathing, pure and deep visceral loathing,

For these sniveling, driveling, bloating,

Dark Tower orcs. We loathe them all!

Ev'ry sneaking Snaga, great or smalll

Makes our very flesh begin to crawl

Ahhhh…. Loathing!

**_. . . _**

**_What is this feeling, so sudden and new?_**

**_I get a headache when I lay eyes on you._**

**_My blood is rushing._**

**_The prisoner's squealing._**

**_My rage is crushing._**

**_Oh, What is this feeling? Does it have a name? Yes!_**

**_. . . _**

**_What if Lugbúrz is lying? _**

**_Orcs everywhere are dying._**

_It's each orc for himself__** (**_**himself****_)_**

**_. . . _**

**_Now our old alliance's in the past_**

**_In these darkest days, friendship can't last_**

**_And I will be loathing for forever_**

**_Loathing, truly, deeply loathing you_**

**_Forever long!_**


	26. Epilogue: Exit Alassë

**A/N:** And now, here, on the shores of a random pond somewhere in the Land of the Blessed, we come at last to the end of Alassë's tale, with his own take on a Celtic Woman classic. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, or favorited this story. Feel free to continue to suggest songs for parodies. I may add a chapter from time to time, as inspiration strikes.

* * *

><p><strong>Valinor, a final time<strong>

The court's decision. Banished. Banished to some dark corner of Aman, forbidden to return to Middle-earth, or even to venture to Tol Eressëa. Not allowed to write to anyone. His few visitors required to be approved by a panel of the lesser Valar – or, if they were particularly dangerous, passed off by Manwë himself. It was galling, it was horrible, it was disappointing. And, yet . . .

Alassë knew many who would have considered him to be getting off easily. One did not meddle in the great music. Neither during its creating nor after its cessation. He was lucky to have escaped with his form and essence intact. And, yet . . .

Solitude was going to become very boring very quickly. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since his sentencing and final imprisonment, in a small cottage in a remote region of Valinor – Alassë was not even allowed to know his own location, lest he find some way of alerting his allies and escaping. The Maia was forced to acknowledge that this was giving himself entirely too much credit. As the dismal turnout of his trial had amply demonstrated, he did not have any allies. Not even Mithrandir had bothered to show his wrinkly, eyebrow-encrusted face. And, yet . . .

The cottage was very pleasant. There were woods outside, and a nice little pond with some stupid, silvery fish inside. Probably also one of Ulmo's sycophants, but Alassë was trying not to think of that . . . He had other concerns to occupy his mind. Namely, his escape.

Manwë could declaim and rage and rule all he wanted, but music could not be contained by the constructs of Man, Elf, or Vala. Neither could Alassë. It might take him a few days – or centuries – but he would escape this trap.

The Maia surveyed his new prison with a mildly pleased eye, a new song already dancing upon his thin lips. Music always found its way to freedom. And so would he.

_I hear the voice of the wind_

_And I hear it call out my name_

_. . . _

_Listen, Middle-earth, I say to thee_

_I am the voice of your latent dreams_

_Be not afraid, hearken to me_

_The song of your heart will set you free_

_. . ._

_I am the voice in sun and the silv'ry rain_

_I am the voice of your terror and pain_

_I am the voice that frees what's inside of you_

_I am the voice, I will remain._

_. . ._

_I am the voice in the quays when your lover's gone_

_The dance of young feet when a birthday is come_

_Ne'er do I sleep, throughout all the long years that fall_

_I am the voice that lurks deep in your soul._

_. . . _

_I am the voice of the past that will always be_

_Calling to Varda, gazing to the West_

_I am the voice of the future, the new Age of Men_

_Answer my song, and reveal what's within._

_. . . _

_I am the voice in the wind and the hurricane_

_I am the voice of your triumphs and fame_

_I am the voice that springs from inside of you_

_I am the voice_

_. . . _

_I am the voice of the past that is no more_

_I am the voice of your gladness and pain_

_I am the voice of the silence_

_I am the voice, I am the voice_

_I am the voice, I am the voice._


End file.
